


Sharp edges and brown eyes

by AllegedlyAlan



Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, AnCom is kinda out of character I am afraid, Antifa is mentioned, Basically fascists rose to power, Capable Ancom, OOC, Other, Partisans, Resistance, Sabotage, Underground, if this were longer it would be slow burn, mentions of injuries in case that makes you uncomfy, no beta we die like men, this is really bad, ww3 au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26443534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegedlyAlan/pseuds/AllegedlyAlan
Summary: In a world where Fascism is on the rise, one has to put many differences aside. Especially when your weird new friend can throw molotovs really far.----------------------This is an au  set in near future. Basically fascists go brr, Antifa is no more and Tankie desperately wants Moscow back. That's it.
Relationships: Auth left/ Lib left, Commie/Ancom, Tankie/Anarkiddy, leftist unity - Relationship
Kudos: 47





	Sharp edges and brown eyes

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is actually pretty bad. Like, cringing-in-the-club-level-bad. I wrote it just for fun and I am putting it out because... yeah, I don't really know why. So please, don't expect much.
> 
> 2) Human names gang:  
> Ilya Khrushchev - Auth Left (Commie)  
> Bernard Chomsky - Lib Left (AnCom)

Ilya was leaning back in his chair, legs on the table in front of him. After fooling with the button on the radio, he managed to get the right frequence. The small room was soon filled with the melodic chants of the Red army choir.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the time. Running his hand through his dirty blonde hair, he sighed.

It has been three hours already, and the rest of the unit was nowhere to be found.

Even with Leonid Kharitonov in the background, the bunker still felt oddly empty. 

Well, bunker… It was a small place they managed to build underground.

Him and his people. They were a group of about eight people, both men and women, with ties even to the partisans. All of their hands were calloused from hard work, digging holes in the ground, farming food. Their eyes were tired but precise, all of his people knew how to fire a rifle. Use a knife, maybe even drive a tank.

And he was their leader. Although no one ever said it out loud, everyone saw him as one. He was the speaker of their group, the first to charge into battle and the last one to retreat.

He heard noises from the top. The group was finally back! Well, probably. Just in case… He reached for his gun, when he suddenly felt a bolt of pain in his right leg. He must’ve moved it while reaching over.

That was also the reason he was staying behind today. On their last mission, he must’ve stepped through glass or something, since his foot was pierced with sharp edges of glass and bleeding when he got back.

He tried to clean the wound and bandage it, but something like that will probably take months to heal, if he is lucky. What if he hurt some of the nerves there? Would he still be able to walk? What if…

His train of thought was interrupted by one of his comrades jumping through the trapdoor.

„The Romanoff street is clean. Also…“ the man smiled and gestured upwards, „We found someone strange there. Not one of us, but most likely not one of the fascists either. We brought him here, so it’s up to you, whether he lives or…“ the sentence was left unfinished as others climbed through the door.

Before the last one got to climb in, a stranger was pushed down the door. Ilya flinched internally, because the figure had no chance to grab the ladder on time.

Vladimir, one of his comrades, a former tank driver, jumped through and shut the trap door behind him. Now they were all here, staring down the man on the ground.

Well, man… Ilya tried not to jump to conclusions too fast, but he saw the person twitch slightly when referred to as „him“. At first he was sceptical about why his friends brought any strangers here, but now it made sense. A girl, even if disguised as a boy, would not last long out there.

So you can imagine his suprise, when the stranger rolled onto their back, trying desperately to catch their breath, and they actually did look like a boy. Kind of. A rather handsome boy, Ilya noted before he could even push the thought back to wherever it came from.

They were dressed like one of the rioters, wearing a hoodie and running shoes. Half of their face was covered by a black mask, and with their hoodie down, Ilya could see their dark, curly hair.

„Where do you come from? Are you one of them?!“ Vladimir yelled, before anyone could stop him.

The stranger chked out a few words, their voice high-pitched and shaky. While everyone was arguing over what it meant, Ilya scooted a bit closer and carefully inspected the stranger’s left hand.

That was because previously, he noticed there was something tatooed there. As he took their hand, their eyes, wide open, scanned him with fear. /Brown eyes/, he noted. Not that it mattered.

He tried to put on his most comforting face (no but really, were they even twenty?), but quickly furrowed his eyebrows. He had seen this symbol long ago, while he was still in the military.

Well, not a symbol really. Just four numbers.

When he was starting in the armed forces, he once walked on his officers watching the news. They were all laughing and pointing at what seemed like footage from the news. There were people dressed in all black, chanting demands against the police.

His officers ridiculed the protesters, questioning their beliefs and sanity. But Ilya noticed something.

There was a lot of determination in the rioters‘ eyes. And later, a lot of Molotovs in their hands, too. And they had a pretty good aim.

So when he noticed the „1312“ on the stranger’s wrist, he knew they were on the same side. Well, at least when faced with a group of fascists.

„We’re keeping him. At least for now. He’s not a fash, it seems.“ Ilya said.

No one, except maybe Vladimir, seemed to mind.

Then, he switched to English and turned to the figure on the ground.

„Can you shoot?“

They shook their head weakly.

„Can you drive?“

Yet another negative answer.

Ilya stood up (trying not to show how painful his injury actually was) and frowned. Maybe they could at least… Do the dishes? Repair guns? That’s bullshit.

He was just thinking about telling his friends that the stranger was no use to them, when he heard a faint, unsure voice behind him.

„But I can run pretty fast.“

There was an ironic smile somewhere in that sentence.  
He liked that.

About six days later, he was inspecting a map of the underground. If there was only a way for them to get through there… If they could seize even one train, that would be a massive help. But they’d need more people to do that. And more guns. Oh, and definitely more time…

He sighed, leaning back.

Then he heard a quiet cough behind him.

Ilya turned around, only to see the newbie standing there with food in their hands.

„Nina sends you dinner.“ they said, thick American accent showing through their broken Russian, but Ilya still found it endearing. How they tried their best to speak Russian, even if it was not necessary.

The stranger, whose name he found out to be Bernard (so that makes them a boy? Bernard always wiggled their way out of answering that question) actually suprised him quite a bit.

Who he deemed to be just a blind follower of an anti-fascist movement that was now long dead was actually very good at sabotage of any kind.

Neither Ilya nor his friends would have never even thought about some of the tactics Bernard used. Or if they have, it didn’t seem important to them.

It was simple things, really – putting sugar into concrete, spamming the fascists‘ information line, cutting off wires of pretty much any machine found in the city or disrupting the radio waves. But it always paid off later.

Sure, the new member had some dark sides – they were immature sometimes, very naive and easily trusting. But somehow, it only made Ilya like them more. At first, he shrugged it off as just brotherly-taking-care-of-each-other-thing, but then one night, they were both up late, trying to decipher some messages passed through the radio. 

And to his defense, Ilya was actually really good at that. He used to entertain himself and his friends, when he was in the military, by leaving mysterious messages and references everywhere he went.

But it was kind of hard to focus with Bernard sitting next to him. For some reason.

„Ah, thanks.“ he set his pencil down, trying to turn in his seat while Bernard put the bowl on the table.

„What happened to your leg?“ they asked, noticing Ilya’s discomfort.

„I think I stepped on glass.“

Bernard nodded and turned to leave, but Ilya didn’t want them to, so he just kept talking.

„About three weeks ago, we were on a mission…“ he trailed off, realizing he didn’t even know why he tried or where he was going. 

Strangely enough, that seemed to catch Bernie’s attention.

„And it still hurts that much?“

„What do you mean?“

Bernie flinched nervously, and Ilya mentally scolded himself for sounding so rough.

They switched back to English:

„Well, something simmilar happened to a friend of mine and-“ they cut themselves off. „By this time it should be healed properly.“

„Oh.“

„There could still be fragments inside.“

On one hand, Bernie had already hepled them a lot. It seemed very unlikely that they would be a spy, and this was their tactic to pour acid into his wound or something. On the other hand, though, he shouldn’t trust them so quickly just because they have brown eyes. Not that he noticed.

„Do you want to take a look?“

Bernie nodded and knelt before Ilya. Then, they slowly unwrapped the bandage.

Ilya himsef couldn’t see the wound from his position, but judging from the face Bernie made, it didn’t look good.

„It’s not healing properly. It might be infected, though.“

Ilya cursed internally. „That means you have to reopen the wound and...“

Bernie smiled sadly:

„It would be better to check. But you might want to call Nina or someone else, I am not a doctor.“

Ilya shook his head.

„Nina cleaned my wound the first time, I am not doing that again.“

The dark-haired partisan smiled nervously.

„Come on, I saw you cutting those wires the other day. You will do fine.“

They nodded and grabbed a few tissues and a towel.

On the bright side, Bernie was very gentle. And their hands were soft, and they didn’t even shake that much.

It still hurt like hell though.

„So… Did you ever do something like this before?“ Ilya asked, trying to get his mind off the pain.

„I would sometimes help people at protests. Like washing out tear gas, treating rubber bullet wounds, that kind of thing.“ Bernie spoke slowly. „I was mostly the one getting into trouble. I was once arrestted, and while in the police car, someone threw a molotov at it. That was fun.“ they chuckled.

„They arrest kids at where you’re from?“

This time, Bernie actually laughed, out loud.

„Kids? That was like, a year ago.“

„Wait, how old are you?“ Ilya asked, confused.

„I’m twenty two, Khrushchev.“ Bernie laughed, sounding unsure abou the name he used.

„You can just call me Il-Fuck!“ Ilya cried out at the sudden pain that was now much stronger. Suddenly, Bernie’s hands weren’t there anymore.

„I’m so sorry, but look!“ they smiled apologetically, holding up a piece of glass.

Ilya blinked. It was like an inch long and very sharp.

„Oh.“ was all he said while Bernie bandaged up his foot.

When they finished, Ilya took the glass and looked at it closer. That explained a lot.

„Thank you.“

„No problem.“ Bernie smiled, before they disappeared back into the kitchen to wash their hands.

Ilya wished they had stayed longer. He turned to look at his desk and there was still the bowl of food Bernie had left there.

He couldn’t help but feel warm and relieved while eating. It was probably just the injury getting treated, for sure. It must have been.

**Author's Note:**

> in case you want to know what I had in mind when describing the bunker, watch Generation war - the Polish partisans there were my big inspiration. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
